by Mo Hayder
'You never get tired of it?' Caffery asked, as Tig handed him a mug of tea. 'Never want to tell them to go and get a life?'
Tig gave a short laugh. He rolled up the sleeves of his sweatshirt and sat down, legs crossed so his foot was resting on the other knee, balancing the tea mug on his ankle. 'Listen, mate, I know the police. You don't really give a shit how I feel about my clients. You're not here for that. So what are you here for? What do you want to know from me?'
Caffery didn't speak for a second or two. He looked at Tig's eyes. The bad one was sort of grey and cloudy. A bit like a shitty London day. Caffery had a second of disorientation. A second or two where he couldn't read the guy at all. He turned over the photo of Mossy and held it out.
'Recognize him?'
Tig didn't hurry. He put the cup calmly on the desk, the handle to the side. He lifted his foot off his knee and put both feet on the floor, his hands on his thighs as he stood up and took the photo. As he examined it, Caffery thought he saw a contraction in the muscles at the corners of his eyes, no more than a millimetre's change. It came to him that Tig had already known exactly whose picture he was going to see.
'No,' he said, holding it to the light, squinting. 'Nah, sorry, mate. Never seen him.'
He held the photo out for Caffery to take, but he didn't. He was still watching Tig's face. 'You sure you don't know him?'
'A hundred per cent. Never seen him in my life. Here – take it back.'
Caffery waited a moment more. He was trying to get in under this bloke's cloudy eye, trying to get a flicker out of it, just a dilation in the pupil, anything to tell him he was lying. But there was nothing. Just this sort of weird evenness he didn't know how to interpret.
In the end he took the photo, tucking it into his folder. He left his hand on it and thought about the next question he had to ask. And then, because he hated the question and because he knew where it would lead, he thought for a few moments about the girls on City Road and what he could be doing now instead of this. What he could be doing to forget. The thought made him want to sigh again. He took his hand off the folder.
'Your clients,' he said. 'Do you s'pose any of them would recognize him? Maybe I could have one of my lads come out and have a chat to them?'
Tig snorted. Gave him that look Caffery knew from years and years of doing the exact same thing in south-east London. 'I shouldn't have to tell you about client confidentiality. It's the backbone of the whole set-up. We'd be ruined if we ran around opening our arms to the police every five minutes.'
'Yes. I know. But . . .' Caffery spoke slowly, ponderously, studying the backs of his own hands as if he was more interested in them than in the words coming out of his mouth. 'But do you know what I'm picturing?'
'What?'
'I'm picturing your future, Tig. I'm picturing your future and all the steps you can take to change it. And then, on the tail of that, I'm picturing all the people out there now, all the people this same thing might happen to in the future. The victims that aren't victims yet . . .' He let that hang in the air – the victims that aren't victims yet – so that its implication sank down a little. This was the best lever he had, to move the responsibility away from the police and on to the interviewee. 'Maybe even someone you care about. I'm picturing them, and I'm picturing their lives going ahead, happily, maybe having a house, a family. And then I'm seeing the opposite. I'm seeing them murdered. Mutilated. Hands taken off. With a hacksaw. An ordinary hacksaw you can buy in a hardware shop. What sort of a future is that?'
He saw that Tig was caving. A little patch of white had started on his forehead, as if the blood had stopped flowing.
'Look,' Tig said, 'I've got a responsibility to these lads.'
'And to their futures. This guy on the photo – he's got to be a lot like some of your clients, same lifestyle. What that tells us is that if it happens again, it's likely to happen to someone a bit like him.'
'But I can't have your people down here, can't do that. My clients'll never trust me again.'
'It's your decision. It's only you who can decide to do the right thing.'
There was another pause. 'Tell you what,' Tig said at last. 'If you leave the photo I'll let the guys see it. Maybe something'll come out of it like that.'
'Can I rely on you for that?' Caffery wanted to play the game out a little further. 'The future victims . . . can they rely on you?'
'Mate, listen now. I'm giving you a promise. OK? I make you a promise. You take it or you leave it.'
Caffery slid Mossy's photo back out of his folder and passed it over. Tig picked it up, his face tight, contained. He put it on the photocopier and ran off copies, standing with his back to Caffery, who sat for a while, not speaking, wondering if there was something else he should be asking. On the floor near the photocopier was a bag he hadn't noticed before, a holdall with a fleece draped over it. He vaguely registered something familiar about its logo. It was making him drift a bit when Tig said, 'Do you know about me?'
'What?'
'You didn't look at my record before you come here?'
'What would I've found if I had?'
Tig handed him the photo and sat down. He rubbed his hand across his shaved scalp. 'What you said earlier – don't I ever get tired of it. Do you know how come I don't?'
'No.' Caffery looked down at the bag again, then back at Tig. 'No, I don't.'
'Because it's me. I'm one of them. Or I was. That's why I never get tired of them or of the shit they're going through – the self-hatred, the misery, the awful fucking hole you fall into when you're an addict. I know what it's like to break a car window for a ten-pence piece on the dashboard, to rob my mum's pension, to pick someone else's stash out of a pool of their puke. I know what it's like to be down there.'
'Why're you telling me this?'
'Because I nearly killed someone.' He paused to let that sink in. 'I've done my time, but I can see you finding out about that and coming back, getting a bit tasty with me, maybe pointing fingers. Better tell you now so it's no surprise.'
Caffery sat back in his chair. For a while the only noise was the photocopier whirring and flashing, sending the smell of copying ink into the air. Then he said, 'Well? What happened?'
'An old lady. I was high. Went into her house to rob her and ended up half killing her – tied her up with the bedside-lamp cord and smashed both legs with an iron.'
Caffery smiled slowly. Something cold was creeping into his skull. 'And you're telling me you regret it? That you're straight, learned your lesson? That you're a productive member of society? That we should be having a soft little session about rehabilitation?'
Tig smiled back nastily. 'Ah, yes. I should have known. I should have seen in your eyes. You don't believe people can change. Forgiveness isn't a word you use in a hurry.'
Caffery tried to imagine what it'd be like to wrap electric cord round an old lady, then hit her so hard with an iron that the bones in her legs shattered. He tried to imagine what Penderecki had done to Ewan. What it would be like to rape a nine-year-old boy. How loud would someone have to scream to make you stop? Penderecki had had his shot at redemption – he never did time for Ewan, and he could have made anything he wanted out of his life. But he had died, alone and penniless with no family or friends, just a pile of children's underwear catalogues in his council house. And even that was about a million times better than he deserved.
Tig stood up and took the huge bunch of keys from the desk. He went to the door, and turned. 'Is that it, then?'
Caffery got to his feet, snapped closed the leather folder and went to the door. He stopped next to Tig and looked into his eyes. 'Just one thing,' he said softly. 'If you took my legs away from me do you know what I'd want?'
'No. What would you want?'
'I'd want to pay you back.' He smiled, feeling as if there was blood on his teeth. 'I'd want to take your legs in return.'
20
Tig wasn't in the mood to talk about what he'd said. I'm not gay.
When he came to find Flea, sitting quietly in the unlit kitchen downstairs, waiting for Caffery to go, his face was red and patchy, his eyes were hard. She asked him what was the matter, what had been said, but he shook his head and was silent as they drove to the restaurant owner's house. It was only when they were standing on the doorstep, waiting for the door to be answered, that he spoke.
'They don't make them any different from the way they made them fifteen years ago. Something out of The Sweeney, that one.'
Flea didn't answer. She was staring at the little window in the restaurant owner's front door. Several times on the way over here she'd almost said to Tig, 'Look, let's forget it. Let's just turn round and pretend I never said anything.' She knew she was getting in too deep and now she was light-headed, as if an elastic band had been wrapped round her skull and was being tightened. If she was right, this innocuous-seeming house could hold the key to how Mallows got his hands cut off.
'Hey, you with us?' Tig said.
She blinked. 'What?'
'I just said – that cop. Jack Caffery. Gave me a little Fascist-police-state spiel. Aggressive. Only word for it.'
'He's not that bad.'
Tig looked her up and down in a way that made her uncomfortable. Then he gave her a tight grin. 'See? You gave the game away. You fancy him.'
She was about to answer when the sound of locks being opened from inside stopped her. She straightened her shoulders and ran her hands self-consciously down her jeans to iron out the creases. She wished she could see herself in a mirror – she knew she'd be pale in the face.
The man who opened the door had a faintly anxious, scholarly look about him. He was thin with close-cropped greying hair and skin so dark it seemed almost to have an ashy dust over it. He was dressed unassumingly in lightweight belted trousers and his pale green checked shirt had its sleeves rolled up. She noticed that the skin on his forearms was shiny – as if it had been greased.
'Mr Mabuza.' Tig extended his hand. 'Good of you to see me. Short notice, I know.'
Mabuza forced a smile. 'Don't worry, my old friend.' He took the hand carefully, almost delicately, and shook it. Then he inclined his head to Flea. 'Gift Mabuza. And you are?'
'This is Flea, my – my girlfriend. Hope you don't mind.'
Girlfriend? When the hell was that okayed? she thought, but Mabuza was looking at her so she removed her sunglasses and held out her hand. There was a slight beat – just a split second when she thought something crossed his face – then he took it and shook it lightly. When he let go she could feel a thin residue left on her hand – something faintly pungent, faintly unpleasant.
'Come in,' he said. He spoke in a stiff, clipped way – only a trace of an accent, a bit like Kaiser spoke sometimes. Sort of Eliza Doolittle-ish – a bit too English to be real. 'Come in, come in.'
She stepped inside and instantly felt a drag on her – as if the gloom was pulling energy from her. There was a smell in here, of meals cooked many months ago, of sadness. When Mabuza took them in and left them in the living room while he went to get coffee, it was a few moments before her eyes got used to the light, but when she did she saw the interior was decorated like an English guesthouse: horse brasses on the walls, purple carpets on the floor, overstuffed floral sofas with arm protectors, embroidered cushions plumped up and propped in a row. There were trimmed lampshades, a cheap carriage clock on the television, twin china spaniels on either side of the mantelpiece with a wooden crucifix on a small base between them. Without waiting to be asked she went to the mantelpiece and studied the cross, thinking there was something strange about it, something she couldn't quite put her finger on.
'Do you like it?'
She jumped. Mabuza stood next to her, holding a tray with cups and a coffee pot. His eyes were going from the cross to her face and back again. 'Very nice wood, do you think?'
'Yes,' she said, holding her face very still. 'Very nice.'
'I will leave the house in twenty minutes.' He set the tray down, then bent to pour coffee into thin rosebud-patterned china cups. Flea sat down on the sofa and Mabuza put a cup in front of her. Tig sat in a leather armchair, his head back, his hands on the chair's arms. 'My wife and I will go to a meeting at our church,' said Mabuza, 'so, my friends, I am sorry, we cannot talk all night.'
'We understand.' Tig pinched up the knees of his combats and sat forward, elbows on his knees. 'We'll try not to keep you.'
'And I should tell you now,' said Mabuza, 'I don't know why you are here, but I am very afraid you will be disappointed by our meeting, my friend. Today of all days I fear for my business.' He put his hands together, as if in prayer, and pointed the fingers at Tig. 'With the best will in the world my work for charities will become limited.'
Flea sat in silence while the men talked about business, the charity. She fiddled with the spoon in the saucer, letting her eyes flit round, first to the crucifix, then to the cupboards, the walls, trying to decide what it was about this room that bothered her. There was a painting of a cat washing its face under a picture light in the alcove. It was on nailed-together boards and seemed out of place. She studied it for a while, wondering if that was what worried her. Or maybe it was the bay window, with its heavy curtains that would stop any light getting in or out. Or the wallpaper – striped up to the waist-height dado rail, with a plain dark ochre base that might have been washable. She thought there was a faint sheen to it and tried to pick out areas that had been cleaned, where the colour was paler. And then it struck her. It wasn't the walls or the curtains that were setting off alarms. It was the carpet.
She stared at it, her pulse thudding. Slightly dusty-looking, its pile was too deep to be fashionable, but otherwise it wasn't anything out of the ordinary. Except for one thing. The colour. It was a dark, slightly pinkish purple. The same colour as the fibres on the hands.
'Flea,' Tig said sharply, next to her, making her jolt upright. She looked up to find Mabuza in front of her, offering her a plate of biscuits.
'I'm sorry,' she said, her mouth dry. 'I'm . . .'
'Miles away,' Mabuza said. 'That's the expression, isn't it?'
She looked at the biscuits, then back at his face.
Was this the face of a man who had cut another human being to pieces – here in this room? 'I don't know much about charity work, the voluntary sector. It's not my thing.'
'Don't apologize. Did you want a biscuit?' He smiled and pointed at the plate. 'My wife made these ones. The others, I'm afraid, are from the shop.'
'Thank you.' She leaned forward, her cup and saucer balanced in one hand. Hesitating – thinking of the carpet, the heavy curtains – she put her finger on the edge of the plate and applied just enough pressure to pull the rim down. Mabuza tried to catch it but it fell out of his hands, landing face down on the carpet, scattering the biscuits.
She put her cup down with a clatter. 'Damn, I'm— Here, let me.' Before Mabuza could do anything she had pushed back the coffee-table and was on her hands and knees, collecting up the biscuits, piling them back on the plate, raking through the carpet for crumbs. 'Clumsy.' She lifted her face to the two men, giving them the blankest of smiles. 'Clumsy and stupid.'
When the floor was almost clear she took a deep breath. With her left hand she picked up the last couple of biscuits, the right she closed round a chunk of the carpet. She pulled. There was a faint, ripping sound, but she kept her eyes pinned on the men, still smiling. In one movement she tipped back on her heels, putting the biscuit on the plate, picking up her cup and sitting back on the sofa, her right hand folded round the clump of carpet and tucked under her left arm.
The two men didn't say anything but looked at her silently. She found herself speaking, saying anything to cover the silence. 'Where are you from, Mr Mabuza?' It was out of her mouth before she'd even thought what to say. She forced herself to hold his eyes and keep the smile there. 'Tig'll tell you,' she said, trying to make her voice calm. 'I'm about as nosy as they get. Sorry.'
'Don't be sor
ry.' Mabuza inclined his head with a polite smile. 'No apologies necessary in this house. I'm from South Africa – thank you for asking.'
'South Africa?'
'Do you know it?'
A picture came into her head. A picture of dark, freezing water, a picture of human screams echoing into the desert air. 'No,' she said quietly. 'Not really.'
'I know what you're thinking.' His eyes were slightly yellow round the pupils as if he was jaundiced.
'Do you? What am I thinking, then?'
Mabuza laughed. 'You're thinking I'm black.
You're thinking the only South Africans you meet are white, and here I am sitting in front of you, large as life, and I'm black.'
'That's right,' she said, not moving her eyes from his. 'That's exactly what I was thinking.'
'I'm one lucky South African black, believe me.'
He went on holding her gaze in a way that made her uncomfortable. It was just as if he'd seen her grab the carpet and was trying to spook her into saying something. Slowly he began to talk, his eyes not leaving hers as if he wanted every word to sink in. At first the words meant nothing to her, drowned by her pulse pounding, but slowly she realized he was telling her his story – how he'd been born in Johannesburg, how when the white-owned drilling company he worked for had wanted to look good and fill their quotas, as if they belonged to the new South Africa, they'd gone hunting down the company's ranks and taken a long-standing black forklift driver, moving him quickly and artificially up the ranks until he was appointed CEO and taken to Cape Town. Gift Mabuza had never made a decision in his three years as CEO. He'd spent the days in his oak-panelled office in the shadow of Table Mountain, playing Internet poker and signing cheques until the whole scam was cracked apart by the press. Then he had taken the pay-off, come to the UK and, with what he'd learned, had opened the Moat.